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Doberman, Raleigh, but that damned Rooster, the harrier, felt compelled to put his nose to the ground and follow her scent, talking all the while. As a hound, Rooster couldn’t help but show off. Much as he irritated Inky, she knew old Rooster had suffered sadness in his life. His master, Peter Wheeler, a handsome, vital man in his eighties, had died two years ago, bequeathing Rooster to Jane—once his lover—and his entire estate to the Jefferson Hunt Club. Sister lavished care on Rooster, but he still missed his “Pappy,” as he thought of Peter.
    The one Inky really detested was Golliwog, the calico cat, whose airs plucked Inky’s last nerve. As a rule, felines feel they are the crown of creation. Golly took this hauteur to extremes. Sometimes when Inky would visit the kennels to chat with Diana, a particular favorite, Golliwog would saunter by, nose in the air, always no hello. Then she’d buzz around the corner toward Shaker’s dependency and emit an earsplitting shriek,
“Fox at the kennels!”
This would rouse the entire pack, who would then rouse Shaker. Inky would skedaddle out of there. Golly was a royal pain.
    Sister breathed in, the air heavy, the sky darkest pewter. Inky put her entire head out of her den. Corn oil smelled wonderful. She wasn’t going to emerge totally though.
    â€œYou know, New Year’s Hunt is Thursday.” Wanting to reach down and pet the glossy head, Sister restrained herself. “Oh, what a hunt that always is. It’s the last of the High Holy Days, so everyone will be decked out in their finest, regardless of the temperature. The horses will be braided. Some of the field will be so hung over they’ll glow green.” She laughed. “But if they don’t make it, they are tormented until the next New Year’s Hunt by everyone else who pulled themselves together to brave all. Inky, I don’t know why people drink like they do. A glass of champagne or a good single malt scotch now and then, just one, mind you, but anything more,” she shook her head, “damned foolishness. Course, if people want to destroy their bodies, that’s their business, so long as they don’t destroy mine. I look at you and Athena,” she mentioned the huge horned owl who showed little fear of humans because she inspired fear in them, “and our other friends, and you all don’t wreck your bodies. I can’t decide if the human is genetically flawed or has created a society where the pressures are so fierce many folks can’t endure them without a little chemical help. Or maybe it’s both.”
    â€œYou all worry about death too much,”
the prescient creature said, but it sounded like a soft yap.
    Sister couldn’t understand, but she was a country girl, acutely attuned to animals. “Well, sugar, I’m off to feed the reds down by Broad Creek. And I am hunting on New Year’s, weather be damned. The snow will be over by tonight, the roads will be passable, and Tedi and Edward will plow out a field so everyone can park. The ground will stay frozen, too. That can be difficult.” She smiled at the beautiful orange–light hazel eyes looking up at her. “We’ll cast down by the covered bridge, so I don’t know which way we’ll go. Anyway, I don’t think you’ll be much bothered. And then, dear Inky, the dilettantes will hang up their spurs, winter will deepen, and the balls-to-the-wall gang will stay out. Or should I say the ovaries-to-the-wall? Oh, how I love those January, February, and early March hunts.”
    â€œSister, you’re looking well, and I wish you a Happy
New Year.”
    â€œBye-bye, babydoll.” Sister turned, her tracks already half covered in snow, and returned to her bright red ATV.
    Inky hopped out, reaching her paw in the canister hole to retrieve the delicious treat.
    Sister drove back to the other end of the cornfield, where a rutted